


Nightmares

by sweetvampirous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Caring John Winchester, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester are Jack Kline's Parents, Depression, Drunk John Winchester, Gen, Good Parent John Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Resurrected John Winchester, Separation Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:28:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetvampirous/pseuds/sweetvampirous
Summary: It's 2019 and John is living without Sam and Dean; if you call that living.





	Nightmares

The only choice for a roof over your head in a town that, logistically, should not exist in this era is this. It’s a has-been place suited for a person of the same description. The bulbs of the neon sign outside long burnt out would bolster a quiet room (besides the cleanliness, and an antiquated mention about cable television - is that outdated now? HBO? Is that still a thing? Mini fridge? Nice.) Though, it was quiet, with a few exceptions to the nights gone by lately. It’s permanent and typically sole occupant is that of John fucking Winchester, who guesses the only thing worse than being brought back to his own version of a mediocre hell-on-earth. He’s been to hell. It’s... easier than this. This might be some version of purgatory, being brought back this way. To this. Living again. Out casting yourself.  
The motel its self is not… bad, per se, it’s not great. When you live your life going through every one-star place they‘re all just... blended together. It’s not even that nicer, name-brand chain place up the street or the bed-and-breakfast in town. It’s avoidable in every sense of the word, but for some fairytale purpose, there’s a young twenty-something couple in the room next door are obviously on a rest stop on their way down to Vegas. It’s very affordable, to say the most.

His eyes pop open in an instant, tonight he’s screaming out for Dean instead of Sam, it’s almost always one or the other, Sam more often than not; and once it had been Castiel. That’s the dream John doesn’t want to have again, one that he stays up until the afternoon light floods the room through the wide-open curtains, the warm air of the desert is filtering in through the window, and he’s hallucinating old ghosts from sleep deprivation to avoid. He passes out eventually, always does, vodka and gin aiding the process along; one or another, sometimes both, and it leaves him awake all night to side-eye spots in the dark when his focus is otherwise occupied by the same drinks, old and expired snacks, and that cable television with some sports channel on repeat, or finding that yeah, HBO is still a thing; “Deadwood“ isn‘t on anymore, Dean liked that, he remembers.

His throat is raw from crying out; panting hot breath that rushes his outstretched hand curled around the gun he’s aiming at nothing but sheetrock, the cool metal too familiar a contrast. He heard the chambers rotate before he’s even heard himself panting, his vocals stuck on getting the name “Dean” out repetitiously. The disruption is mutual, the couple next door banging on the paper-thin walls and yelling at him to shut up. He doesn’t blame them, he lowers the gun, drops it on the mattress and drops his head in his hands. His apology is too low to hear, and it’s more of one to himself than the kids in the opposite room.

The thing is, there’s nothing in this town left. The lowest class of monster no longer exists here, hasn’t for a while and there’s nothing left to do, to occupy himself with, to feel useful for. No one to protect; not that anyone ever mattered besides his boys. He did appreciate saving and keeping other families intact, though. Tries to think of all the families that got a second chance thanks to his sons. The “famous” Winchester Brothers.

The gun is stored back in its place under a pillow that’s turned and fluffed back up rashly before laying his head back on it, long fingers reaching for the thin sheets to untangle the rest of his entwined legs that kick them off with little care to positioning, and the matching threadbare comforter pulled up too far up his chest.

Finally, his eyes close again but open once more until he’s just staring into the darkness of the ceiling and the four walls around him until they adjust to danger-free surroundings. The moon illuminates the desert with no trees to block it out, his eyes taking in the dim white glow around the glass, waiting for sleep, ignoring the sting of loneliness and time misspent.

He’s not sure if he would do life over any differently, any softer, he’s certain he wouldn’t even if he’s hesitating the thought again and again.

It’s not that he misses having two perfect little boys sleeping soundly - safely, on a matching queen bed next to his. The circumstances aren’t the issue, though the location is a painful thorn, what he would miss if he had the luxury would be a bottle of beer, an old movie playing until he passed out contentedly from a hard day’s work, all while never giving mind to sleeping children upstairs. What he misses now he doesn’t know, thinks it could be something selfish. The what could have been, the what could be. Candidly, he feels as codependent as the two brothers have always been; they’re all he has. Maybe it’s why he lost his cool letting Sam leave for school. They’re adults now, they’re safe now, they’ve even got a fucking angel, a real god damned angel, on their side… and that’s more protection than the eldest Winchester himself could ever offer. The whole “Son of Satan” thing he can set aside because of the confidence, security and above all else, love and affection, in Dean’s voice. He wonders if he ever sounded something like that when telling other hunters of his young boys, or if he just sounded utterly terrified, voice full of dread, panic, a sense of waiting on something terrible. Something inevitable.

The sound of plastic vibrating on cheap wood reverberates through the small motel room, soft blue light irradiating the space above the nightstand, and softening out rays that don’t filter through the dark to light up John’s face when he turns to look at it only after it goes off. The digital clock on the stand reads 1:30 AM and the empty bottles of whiskey scattering the table tell him how he got to fall asleep in the first place. John Winchester has never been a man to jump at the first buzz or ring of any phone, not since his wife, not since his oldest was too young and capable of sharpened independence he shouldn’t have had at his age. He stopped jumping for a phone when Mary died, when only relatives called and when his boss was getting aggressive about him coming back to work. His boys were in eyesight. He needed for nothing and no one else. Wanted for, that was reserved for her and safety.

Lately... that’s changed. It’s been almost a year since he’s seen his boys since coming back, months since they’ve sent a text, or Sam has left a strained voicemail. Dean’s seemed more despondent. They always had. John stopped listening after a while, but mixing liquors until he’s stumbling in a spinning room always has him sobbing alongside recordings of Sam’s soft, hushed voice calling him “Dad.”

He drinks until he doesn’t remember Sam or Dean Campbell anymore.

Sam was gone the minute they had their fight. Sam went off to college like he deserved. He knows Sam checked out mentally long, long before that, too. He just never wanted to believe. Has wondered since the second he found out about Jessica if there was some way he could have been more forceful, grabbed Sam and locked him up somewhere like a fucking prisoner if only he could have prevented the pain and heartache of what happened to her that night. If Sam didn’t go, if he never left that… Something. He should have done something. He still isn’t sure what. Sam hating him forever would have been worth saving him that pain…. Sam hates him anyway, so maybe he just should have locked the boy away. Something. Something. Something. Anything. Dean, well, he never figured there could be a world where he would lose Dean. Not to monsters, not to his own grievances, it just wasn’t a card on the table.  
  
It’s 2019 and even Mary is back. He’s lost her too. He never liked Bobby anyways. He’s living in a world where that doesn’t bother him, not with everything he‘s found out. He’s just bitter. He’s come to terms with the waste of time and the destruction - but it was worth it in the end because Sam is alive.

He turns his back to the offending electronic, for all he knows, it’s another simple message from the motel owner asking him to keep it down in the politest way possible - because he’s clearly living there and pays his room on time, among other reasons, as people can actually stay in room 3 overnight now. His cell phone has never controlled or harbored any significance to his life. It’s all the same if he tossed it over a bridge for the fishes. Sam showed him how to use this, though. Still, tonight isn’t the night he’s going to start being rundown by it.

He tears the sheets from his body, letting them tumble to the floor in exchange for his jeans and his old brown jacket Dean had kept all these years. He found it at the back of his closet. He fixed the black collar of the coat as he zips it up, pocketing the phone inside it and trying to slam the maroon red door on the way out of his room. Despite the power behind his force, the spring only allows it to close mildly behind him.

He walks past his truck, fingers fumbling the phone in his pocket. So, Dean had found and kept that old GMC; he’s a mementos kind of guy after having nothing to cling to for so long. John wants to feel loved, wanted, to feel anything but apologetic about a useless old truck from the ’80s. He also wants to pretend like he’s walking aimlessly from insomnia, rather than rushing to last call a few blocks down when the liquor store isn’t open.

It’s not even a mile walk from his room, but every bit of architecture has him more reminiscent of Dean than usual. He consciously doesn’t think too much about it in the daylight, sober, reminds himself that he doesn’t think about it until he is. It’s a breath of fresh air not to remember, not to dwell or let a thought pass sometimes. He doesn’t retain his nightmare, but he remembers calling out for him, the minutes-ago cold-sweat, the fear and disorientation he doesn’t like to familiarize himself with. Every old building, every anxiety-ridden tumble of his phone in his palm. The town distinctly reminds him of Dean sometimes, when he lets it, tonight he can’t push it aside. John’s lips curl into a half-smile. He knows Dean is too old for that cowboy shit anymore, that he missed out on the opportunity to pretend he’s a horse on the living room floor with Lone Ranger playing in the background, piggybacking Dean around until Mary called for dinner. He wonders if he shared any of that with Jack instead, knows from Dean’s expert work with Sammy that Jack must be a wonderful boy... or maybe he likes the same cartoon dog. He wonders what the kid looks like ...if he’s imprinted on Dean or Sam’s style the way Dean took after his own lack of. Mary was always trying to throw out those cheap band shirts.

Winchester is greeted with a warm reception, his drink already being prepared and set in front of him before his ass hits the barstool. In a desert town with a population under 600 where everything is closed on a Sunday and the most modern-day convenience seems to be the gas station, the locals-only understand that the plague of supernatural occurrences — the whole town a damned hotbed of Wendigos — all stopped seem to coincide with the permanent fixture of a stranger in town, one or two eyewitness accounts and a whole lot of rumor. John used to take it in stride with a free drink here and there and stories, leads, for work to do. Lately, there’s more and more drinks and a lot less work. Luckily, or not so, the latest vibration in his pocket stings his ears, pulling it out to rest beside a shot glass being refilled. It keeps his mind off of some town hero facade and he’s tossing back a shot before the notification light fades to an instant black, ushering in the stereotype of town drunk to replace it.

There’s another message alert, but he doesn’t want to open it. Isn’t planning on even looking. Flipping it around in his hand is a nervous habit on par with cigarettes now; it feels like a brick weighing down his wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for a roleplay starter, but it's way too long.


End file.
